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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446300">separate but interacting systems</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsarasays/pseuds/whatsarasays'>whatsarasays</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Control (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlets, Gen, General, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, cosmic horror, in-game, pre-game</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:40:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsarasays/pseuds/whatsarasays</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Jung regarded the psyche as made up of a number of separate but interacting systems.'</p><p>Ficlets and one-shots within the world of Control.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. fridge duty. (phillip, jesse)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tears welled up in his ducts. Rapid blinking beat them back down. Phillip wiped at his lashes with the sleeve of his dress shirt like a finicky squirrel desperate to wick water from its coat. The dry white cotton scraped against his cornea. But the moisture crept back in, blurring his vision once more. With a shallow grasp, he scurried more swipes across one eye and then the other, desperate to keep staring at the Royal Arctic refrigerator in front of him.</p><p>It stared back.</p><p>It looked like the one in his aunt's kitchen. It did not feel like the one in his aunt's kitchen. The door was pocked and scratched, its dusty red epoxy nicked and flaked, exposing the gunmetal gray steel beneath. What had it done to earn such markings? Perhaps it had met the side of a wall? Road pavement? A body? Multiple bodies?</p><p>A shutter trickled down his vertebrae.</p><p>On its front, children's drawings hung from dot magnets. Phillip knew their details by heart. He had much time for study. One had a scribbled landscape with a pom-pom tree and a cheerful round sun suspended in the corner. It was nice. The other two, not so much. A lavender saw-toothed pterodactyl grinned at him. And in his least favorite, a cyan orb with wild pupils floated above a crowd of slant-mouthed onlookers with crashing boxes of colors flanking its sides. The lines were harsh and chaotic, crayon pressed too hard against the page, denting and warping the paper.</p><p>The refrigerator loomed beneath the bureau's pure white box lighting, a statue on display in this museum of the Oldest House. The hum of the fridge matched the pitch of the overheads, despite the plug resting in no socket. Now and then, the lights rattled and popped in fits and starts, shaken by whatever was happening outside of the padded foam-paneled chamber—that sound-barrier which kept him from communicating with the outside world. The intercom mocked him from its snug home outside the door. Its aluminum 'call' button sat happily in its place below the wire mesh speaker, far too many feet from his reach. His only hope for help distant and impossible.</p><p>He had been here for over a day. Or it had been longer? What if it were days? Not sure. Not sure of anything anymore. He'd lost track of time around the eighth hour after his shift ended. His soiled trousers told him it had too long. It was degrading. He was a grown man. But what was indignity compared to what would happen if he stopped? If he stopped!</p><p>Clinching the sides of his folding chair, his finger joints dug into the edges of the metal. Whose idea was it to have a folding chair? What genius thought that up? Surely, a recliner would have made more sense. At least something padded. The back of his thighs and buttocks have been numb for…well, who knows how long? Not him, that was for sure.</p><p>But the occasional rumbling from behind the marble and glass walls told him that relief was something which might never come.</p><p>Panic swelled back up through his throat, and he quelled a whimper. Be brave, he tried to tell himself. Be brave. This was what it meant to work in the bureau. He might not be a field agent, but they all either lasted long enough to retire or met their end in an abrupt blaze of paranatural glory. Wilcox got sucked into AI45-UE—a trashcan. Hassan was buried beneath the clocks. Maine straight-up poofed away after walking behind an innocuous commercial printer, leaving tottering patent leather pumps and a whirlwind of scrolling, twisting memos where she had stood seconds before. They still don't know why that happened. The area had been under investigation ever since.</p><p>But that woman, the one with calm, commanding voice—Jesse! She promised to get him. She was going to find Langston. And then Phillip could go home. To his wife. To his twin boys. Maybe he would quit the bureau. Whisk them off to a Florida beach like they always begged and then get a job peddling insurance in the suburbs. Langston never liked him anyway. And by 'liked,' he meant remembered. "Phillip, who?" Phillip, him. The one who had been serving the bureau for a half-decade. The one with his head down and his workstation tidy. The one who caught stray commas in reports because this was a place where mistakes, even the tiniest ones, could kill.</p><p>An eyelid twitched, almost collapsing shut. Phillip sucked in a breath through his front teeth and hyped himself with a surge of forced energy, conjured from the depths of his reserves. He was usually so stalwart and composed, but now he struggled. His legs jimmied against the concrete floor, bouncing on the balls of his polished loafers. He began to rock back and forth, sweaty hands scrubbing along the thighs of his creased slacks before bracing on his knees. Anything to keep himself present and put.</p><p>Then Jesse clicked through the intercom, tinny and thin, "I'm back. I'm coming in."</p><p>The lock indicator beside the door switched from red to green.</p><p>His pulse shot through his chest, not with panic but elation! A series of 'thank yous' ruptured out of him like the Hallelujah chorus. The spun-tight tendons in his back fell lax, and he leaned heavy against his palms, unwinding with relief. Tears fell in earnest, sliding paths down his cheeks and dribbling into his lap. Their salt made his skin itch. He made no move to wipe them this time. Why should he? He would be out soon.</p><p>It was over.</p><p>But as the wetness clouded and overcame his view of the fridge, his eyes fluttered.</p><p>The fridge door chunked open.</p><p>Pictures and magnets flung across the room.</p><p>Oh, God.</p><p>Did he blink?</p><p>The yawning mouth of the refrigerator poured out chilled air in smoky rolls of condensation. Instead of shelves lined with condiments or produce, the hull emptied into infinite space and time. It was dark with what looked like ingenious rock columns hanging suspended in the gaping awful nothing. Then a single giant orb spotlighted him with its piercing gaze. The refrigerator began to rattle and shake.</p><p>He shrieked for Jesse,</p><p>The fridge was doing something-</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. ashes. (trench, ahti)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>The ember flared and glinted in the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses as Trench took a long drag.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He made a mental note to pick up another pack or three from the convenience store on his way home.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He had been a man managed by his vices since his divorce. Coffee (mornings), whiskey (evenings), cigarettes (always). They were hardly an indulgence. More like a chemical necessity. And it would worsen, he knew, the moment he picked up the pistol that sat waiting on the polished desk of his new office.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>To be the director was temperance. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. For him, that would come by way of uppers here, downers there. Do them at the right time. Orchestrate a molecule symphony. If one couldn’t manage the stress and strain of the job, one relinquished command, admitted defeat, and left the bureau in the lurch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Losing a handle on these things—paranatural things—had its consequences.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Which was why they were here.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the Maintenance Sector.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Metal groaned and creaked, still settling from its fresh construction. Poured concrete and paint fumes. The plant, as sprawling and echoey and blocky as the House itself, would be an appropriate monument to its new generator. A project of colossal magnitude made to entomb their most explosive problem. They had crunched to finish it. Everything about this was pressure and impromptu. The Oldest House had accommodated them nicely, though, shifting and rearranging when no one was looking. Walls and ramps and railings appeared out of nowhere and slid neatly into place as if they had always been.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Behind Trench was a jumble of bureau employees from every sector. A bobbing swarm of jumpsuits, office attire, and security uniforms, scuttling and bumping into one another like ants. Too absorbed in their work to realize they were mourners, that this was a burial—in a sense. Trench had made sure to wear his best black suit. Picked it up from the dry cleaners that morning.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Standing apart from the crowd, disinterested in the minutiae which didn’t involve him, he focused on the architecture, smoking.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A nameless desk jockey with a clipboard and a pencil tucked behind her ear strode up and reported, “Acting Director Trench, we’re good to go.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Where’s Ahti?” Trench asked, looking over his shoulder for the Fin as he flicked the ash from his cigarette into a nearby trash bin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Hei, hei</em>,” Ahti muttered as he ambled through the crowd with a broom and dustpan in tow. He was late. The rest of them had been here for hours, flipping through reams of binders, shuffling dog-eared checklists, and thrice confirming procedures. Trench didn’t stop to ask why he had brought the broom. The guy might fly around on it like a witch for all he knew. The janitor was sage but possessed an unpredictable impishness; his wisdom shrouded in a mischief that set everyone on their toes. Trench especially. But he appreciated Ahti’s irreverence. The prestige of directorship meant little to Ahti, just as it meant little to him. They were on the same page in that regard.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As the janitor came to stand beside him, Trench nodded for the team to commence. The sharp alarm of the lorry sounded off in an intermittent wail as its crane lowered a sealed container down into the main chamber of the plant. The box—coffin—twisted on the end of its nylon straps, looking like a spider twining on its web. It tilted as it pinged and rattled from the atomic collisions firing within.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There was a resounding thud as it settled within the reactor’s walls, and the heavy hatch was sealed with a few hardy spins of its wheel.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Silence enveloped Maintenance.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then the whole thing shook with an explosion.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The staff braced with their knees as the floor quaked beneath them. Some of the recent hires let out gasps of worry and covered their mouths in concern. Trench winced. As the shuttering and shaking finally calmed, computer systems burst to life, invigorated by the power that now surged through the ley lines. Screens flashed with alerts, chimes beeped and shrieked, and gauges glowed orange.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There he goes,” Trench sighed, knuckling his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “One last tantrum.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Finally <em>heitti lusikan nurkkaan,” </em>Ahti said as he leaned against the wooden handle of his broom. And then reaffirmed the statement with a firm hum.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After giving guidance to an assistant on his left, Trench took a last look at the monolithic chamber with his predecessor inside. He creased his forehead as he scratched his brow with a thumb. Immolation was a hell of a way to go. Too bad this was only the beginning of clean-up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Attention elsewhere, he failed to notice the accumulating ash at the tip of his cigarette until it tumbled to the floor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Ahti tutted at him, “Messes already?” And swept the cinders into his dustpan.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My apologies.” Then, pinching the cig between his lips, he shoved a hand in his pocket and turned to leave, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go see about a gun.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, yes. Good luck, and don't let things slip away from the woolen glove.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thank you.” For whatever that meant. “I’ll see you around, Ahti.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’d have to pick up a book of Finnish phrases.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Perhaps after tonight’s cigarette run.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><i>heitti lusikan nurkkaan</i> — threw the spoon into the corner (idiom): to die, give up.<br/><i>lähteä lapasesta</i> — slip away from the woolen glove (idiom): lose control</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. an instigator. (jesse, the former)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Prompt from <a>bioluminescence:</a> Jesse + Former. Some more of that "sneaking out under your parents' noses" vibe we both liked with the Former and the Board?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jesse finds it in The Foundation. She was sure she saw it silhouetted against the dim light the last time she was here, blending in among the pillars, but now she can confirm that The Former has, in fact, escaped from the Astral Plane and taken up residence in the basement of The Oldest House. She huffs. ‘How’ has taken a backseat in her life. She’s learned to accept that if it’s happening, it’s possible.</p><p>The Foundation’s caverns are dark and difficult to navigate. </p><p>The Former’s corner of the Astral Plane had been similar in that way. Whereas The Board basks in over-bright exposure, scrubbed sterile like a hospital, The Former haunts the shadows. But Jesse’s aware that colors play tricks on the mind. The Board <em>wants</em> to seem flawless and pure, angling itself as an incorruptible entity through the illusion of white. So, it’s shrewd of them to force their traitor to skulk in the blackness. </p><p>Though she has a feeling the traitor doesn’t mind the secrecy it affords.</p><p>Her heels tap against the floor as she advances but doesn’t get too close. They're on tentative terms. Just because they had an 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine' arrangement doesn't mean they're allies. “Hey!” She barks.</p><p>The Former rears its head and swivels, still half-obscured by the darkness. She’s not expected, judging by how it cranes up and tilts at her like a curious terrier who’s been caught picking through the trash.</p><p>“You know, I’m not sure having you around the best idea,” she says as she comes to stand before it. Its beaming eye rotates from broad to focused, pinpointing her in its light, and then it distorts at her in its subwoofer static.</p><p>
  <strong>&lt; Return @#$@#$ Error @#$@#$ Relocation &gt;</strong>
</p><p>Cryptic. As usual. She can’t tell if it’s lying or making excuses or telling the truth the best it can. The first time they met, she hadn’t been able to understand a word, but now they can at least exchange a few, however rudimentary. She wonders if it’s learning more of her language or if it’s proximity to The Foundation that gives them the ability to better converse.</p><p>“I think you’re apologizing…? You’re forgiven, I guess, but it’s going to be a problem for both of us if The Board finds you here.”</p><p>She’s not afraid of The Board. </p><p>She just needs to play her cards right. </p><p>And The Former is a liability.</p><p>
  <strong>&lt; Isolation &amp;@$!@ Forsaken &gt;</strong>
</p><p>“I remember, but unless you want to tell me what you’re doing down here, you need to leave. So, thanks for helping me. I really appreciate it. But it might be time for us to part ways.”</p><p>The Former throws out a torrent of protesting noises.</p><p>
  <strong>&lt; Crimes $!%@ Amaranth @#$@#$@ Equitable @#$@# Whistleblower !$%@ Marshall #@&amp;#@ Partner #%@! Torta &gt;</strong>
</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Jesse holds up her hands to calm it down. As it stills, she sighs. An expelled Astral being infiltrating The Oldest House should concern her. But, for some reason, The Former doesn’t set off any of her instinctual alarms. In fact, she finds herself at risk of the opposite problem: becoming endeared to it.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, The Former might be an instigator. A provocateur. A dissenter.</p><p>But so is she.</p><p>“Let’s say you can stay for now, but we—you—need to figure out this communication barrier. I can’t work with you if I only understand half of what you say.”</p><p><strong>&lt; Pupil &gt;</strong> It asserts.</p><p>Jesse blinks.</p><p>That easy, huh? This thing really does want to stick around.</p><p>“Alright, then. But if I hear about anything weird going on with you, you’re out.” She emphasizes her point with a thumb jerk. They both know she’s capable. “And don’t think I won’t check up on you.”</p><p>
  <strong>&lt; Imbibe $%!@ Excelsior &gt;</strong>
</p><p>Jesse suppresses a smile. </p><p>This might actually work out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Alternate title: Jesse harbors a fugitive.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. the interview. (darling, jesse, dylan)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ordinary, Maine.</p><p>Darling loved it. The name. It was overly on-the-nose, bringing him a strange childish delight. The only thing that could have made it better was if it were Wisconsin or something. Cheese curds and cows and Midwest monotony would have further sharpened the contrast.</p><p>Though, judging by the sleepiness, this particular New England town wasn’t too far off. The Federal-style architecture gave it a sense of primness it had no right to possess. The dilapidated gas station on the corner certainly took away from the red brick and cream eaves. Somewhat Idyllic But Mostly Boring Until Very Recently, MI, he renamed it in his head. If the place still wanted to be literal with its naming conventions, things would have to change.</p><p>Darling chunked open the metal door of the school, case files and morning coffee in hand. Their makeshift headquarters was comprised of hijacked teachers’ desks and heavy equipment crates. Personnel was busy scribbling and typing, diligently working to <em>solve.</em> Twenty-four hours straight of swabbing surfaces, collecting samples, and snapping pictures, but the question of what caused the AWE remained unanswered.</p><p>Time to pick through the human data.</p><p>Primary sources were rich with information, responding to direct questions with direct answers. The quantitative—statistics, algorithms—gave scientific discovery validity and generalizability. But it was through the qualitative—observation, interviews—that theories were born. Unfortunately, every adult in Ordinary up and vanished rapture-style, meaning all witnesses were under sixteen. And likely, new orphans.</p><p>Darling knew absolutely nothing about children, his work was his offspring, but he knew the devastation an AWE could bring. He caught sight of the kids through the gym windows yesterday. They were sitting on rows of military cots with their khaki blankets and emergency Dopp kits, waiting until they could be questioned by the FBC and processed by the Office of Children and Family Services. None of their personal belongings could be released until they had been screened for possible Altered Items or OOPs.</p><p>These interviews would be undoubtedly bleak.</p><p>The first subjects were the Faden siblings. An agent reported they’d began frantically babbling about a landfill the moment the FBC showed up at their door and so were moved to the front of the line.</p><p>Follow the strangeness.</p><p>That was how this worked.</p><p>Darling frowned at his lab coat, wrinkled from the drive. White coats held power. Sometimes inciting trust, but other times ire. Didn’t most people like doctors? Hopefully, the children would. Even if he was the research kind. He straightened his bowtie.</p><p>He found the Fadens in the kindergarten classroom, where they'd been told to wait. They weren’t as young as he thought they'd be, but what had he expected? Infants? He needed to brush up on his human development. They sat in primary-colored bean bags. The younger, the boy, was staring out a window, picking at the bag’s seams. The older, the girl, was stiff beside him, sharp eyes clicking to Darling when he walked in.</p><p>Darling gave them what he considered to be his most unoffending smile.</p><p>The girl frowned.</p><p>Darling scanned for a chair but found somebody had robbed the teacher’s desk of its adult-sized one. He resorted to dragging a miniature plastic stool in front of the kids and crunching himself onto it, knees almost to his chest, coffee and case files an awkward pile in his lap. “Good morning. I lead the scientists studying your home. I hear you have some interesting information for me.”</p><p>The boy turned and blinked at him with owlish eyes.</p><p>It was the girl who spoke first, her voice quiet but resolute. Darling liked the cut of her jib. “We know what caused everything. We found a slide projector in the dump, after it got bigger.”</p><p>"The dump got bigger?"</p><p>"Yeah, bigger but the same. Deeper?"</p><p>Darling couldn’t put his coffee down fast enough. He ruffled in his chest coat pocket for a pen and scooched the stool closer, inciting two high-pitched squeals from the rubber-knobbed legs, eager to take notes. Silly of him to not bring a tape recorder. “Mm-hm, yes, go on.”</p><p>The girl eyed him, cagey again, “Each slide took us to, um, different places. The places weren’t here.”</p><p>"'Here' as in Ordinary?"</p><p>“No. Earth.”</p><p>Likely other dimensions. “How did that work?"</p><p>"We'd put in a slide, project it onto a wall, and just go through."</p><p>Definitely other dimensions. "Can you describe these other places?"</p><p>"They were all really weird. Some were scary."</p><p>The boy interrupted, “Do you know where our parents are?”</p><p>The girl snapped her mouth shut and wrinkled her nose, looking as if she were forcing back the sudden sting of tears.</p><p>“No,” Darling said gently. As he noted earlier: bleak. “I don’t. But that’s the thing about the scientific process: it can lead to all sorts of discoveries. Maybe even the location of your parents. I can’t make any promises, though.”</p><p>The boy nodded solemnly, “Tom thought the Not-Mother took them.”</p><p>Darling’s mind reeled as he scribbled notes. 'Not-Mother' had been mentioned in the police reports. Was it an entity they found through the alternate dimensions in the slide projector? Their nickname for something else? What motives did it have in taking the adults? If any? Dear God, so many questions all at once, branching and vining in a thousand directions.</p><p>"Where is Tom? In the gym? I'd like to speak with him, too."</p><p>The children exchanged looks but said nothing.</p><p>Darling peeked at his wristwatch. They would need more than their scheduled fifteen minutes. Much more. He needed to call Trench and deploy a team to the local landfill ASAP. Before anyone else got sucked into a different dimension and met this ‘Not-Mother.’ They should probably just transport the whole site to the Oldest House for safety since it evidently...shifts. What an endeavor. He’d have to lead that. Someone else—a child psychologist, probably—should finish interviewing the kids. They'd better know how to navigate the delicacies of their experience while retrieving the needed information.</p><p>As if on cue, the boy’s stomach warbled a growl. Some positive reinforcement might be in order before Darling subjected them to a marathon of questions. A Paranatural Aptitude Assessment would be wise, too. He had a feeling he’d be getting to know the Fadens quite well.</p><p>Darling clapped the file shut, “I haven’t had breakfast yet. Have you?”</p><p>The children shook their heads no.</p><p>“Let’s go get some cereal,” he said, gathering his pile and inelegantly pulling himself up from the stool, “Or muffins. Do you like muffins?"</p><p>The boy followed.</p><p>The girl did not.</p><p>“Come on,” he called to her as he jerked his head toward the door, “After we eat, I'm going to introduce you to more people who can help. You’ll be having lots more talks with them.”</p><p>She finally trailed after.</p><p>But not without giving him one final glance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Kinda sad Remedy changed Ordinary from Wisconsin to Maine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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